A Weekend in the City
by la luxuria
Summary: Emily lived in London until her mother was killed by cancer. While living with her father in Paris, she could only sit back and watch the horrors of the Rage Virus in England. Suddenly it was in France. And then she met Andy.


**A Weekend in the City**

**Disclaimer: **I disclaim!

**Author's Note: **I loved 28 Weeks Later. I watched it before I watched the first in the series, and I thought it was so much better than the first one. I adore Andy's character, and in my little mind I would like to think that he somehow managed to stay alive, and this is sort of his tale and the tale of a girl he met in Paris. So fucking bite me if you don't like it.

**Chapter I**

She stared blankly at the rainy streets below, forehead pressed to the great glass window, one palm raised to the glass as if catching raindrops through it. She could see her own reflection if she focused in the right place – a small girl of ten years with blonde hair and green eyes. She stared and stared and stared until a roll of thunder forced her to pull her gaze away from her own face and back down to the streets, where hundreds of cabbies and cars zoomed by.

Distantly she heard her name being called, "Miss Vaughn," but did not want to bother with whatever whomever was talking to her had to say. But she felt a delicate hand on her shoulder and turned to face Blanche, the young woman she had grown to know as her tutor, nanny, and the sister she never had. "Emily, mon cher, les besoins d'infirmière de te parler."

Emily Vaughn turned her emotionless gaze to the middle aged woman dressed in purple scrubs. She already knew that whatever this woman had to say was not something she wished to hear.

"Are you the primary caregiver while Mrs. Wyndham is not able to be at home?" the nurse asked Blanche, who nodded curtly and grabbed Emily's small, pale hand to hold in hers. The nurse nodded as well before beginning. "Well, I'm afraid your mother will have to extend her stay here at the hospital. The cancer is not responding to chemotherapy as we had hoped. The doctor is unsure of how she'll be feeling in the near future, but at this point there is not much else we can do for Mrs. Wyndham."

Emily looked away, back out into the gray, rainy view of Greater London. The hand Blanche was holding was starting to go numb. The nurse sat down in the chair across from them. "I am truly, very sorry for this. But I'm afraid your mum hasn't got much time left, Miss Vaughn." There was a brief silence. The lady reached across and put her cold hand atop Emily's and Blanche's. "I can only hope that her last days are painless and fulfilling. My deepest condolences."

Emily did not blink. She did not move a muscle. She did not dare look at Blanche until the nurse was long gone. But oddly she did not cry and would not cry until much later in the week.

Several hours after the message of her mother's undeniably nearing death was relayed, Emily was finally admitted to sit at her bedside. Mrs. Wyndham was barely awake at all, and when her daughter entered the room, she stared for what seemed like hours before she recognized the girl's identity. Her skin was a pale yellow, her eyes glossy and empty, her hair thin, and her entire body small and frail. Emily pulled one of the chairs up close to the bed and held her mum's hand in both of hers. Tears fell from the corners of Mrs. Wyndham's eyes. "Mum, don't cry. Please. You'll be okay. I'm here." Her mum cried like a child and reached up to stroke Emily's long, blonde hair. "My little Em. My ray of sunshine." She smiled faintly. "I'll take you to the opera on Saturday. Doesn't that sound like fun?"

Emily nodded. She felt something catch in her throat. It was late Saturday evening now.

By Monday, Emily was beginning to refer to the hospital as her home. She had not been to hers and her mother's flat since Wednesday. She deeply wished that when she finally went home, she would be taking her mother with her. However, it was apparent that she would not. It was said that the mind was the last thing to go, and thus Emily prepared herself for the inevitable. She tried not to let the words her mother said go to her head, because they were mainly just nonsense, a way of reverting back to a childlike state to block out the pain of death, but when she babbled on about Emily's grandfather, who sounded like a militaristic sadist, and her short and sweet relationship with Emily's French father, the ten year old could barely raise her hands to cover her ears. Memories and questions she would never get to ask her mother haunted her during the last few hours of her mum's life.

It happened on early Tuesday morning. Emily had fallen asleep with her cheek pressed to her mother's forearm, and it was not the discomfort of her position that woke her. It was her mother's shaking. Emily sat upright and watched her mum tremble, an odd sort of look of fear in her eyes. Emily grasped her hand tightly and nodded, "What is it, Mum? What's wrong?" When the trembling began to cease and her mum finally spoke, her voice was very clear and firm compared to the feeble, cracked tone she had been speaking in since her illness worsened. "You can't let it get to you, Emily. If I had any power left, I could protect you." She glanced at her daughter. "It mustn't touch you, not my baby."

Emily furrowed her brow in confusion and exhaustion. "Cancer is not contagious, Mum. I'm going to be fine."

"No!" her mum bellowed. "No, not the cancer." She grabbed Emily's hand and squeezed it. "Promise me that once I'm gone, you'll never come back to England. Your father will love you just as much as I do, and Paris is a much better home than London. For your own safety, Em, get out and stay out! It's going to come, and it will come for you, but I won't let it touch you. Stay away, Emily. England will fall to the tainted! Stay as far away as you can!"

Emily stood, knocking the chair over behind her. "Ouch! Mum, you're hurting me!" She tried to pry her mother's hand off her wrist. "What are you talking about? You're scaring me! Mum, please!" She yanked her arm back, finally freeing herself from her mother's psychotic clutch. She stood, back to the wall, glaring at her mother, whose body had suddenly gone rigid. Emily gasped and rushed to the side of the bed. Once more she took her mother's hand in hers. She raised it to her lips and kissed it. Mrs. Wyndham's chin fell to her shoulder, her gaze fixated upon her daughter. "Promise," she whispered. "Promise."

Emily's jaw clenched, her throat feeling tight. "I promise." She nodded frantically. "I promise." Her mum turned her head back toward the ceiling and a light smile pulled at the corners of her lips. She closed her eyes. "I love you, Emily." Her eyelids fluttered, and then there was nothing. She was gone.

"Mum," Emily called out, tears swelling in her eyes. "Mum! I love you too, Mum." She choked and coughed. "Mum! Mum! MUMMA!" she shrieked. A nurse rushed into the room abruptly and took one look at the scene before calling for the doctor. The doctor came in and lifted Mrs. Wyndham's wrist, checking for a pulse. He hesitated, and then lowered her wrist. He glanced at the clock. "Time of death, 07:28."

Emily pushed herself up off her knees and fled the room, down the hall, into the elevator, and then out onto the sidewalk. It was there that she tried to remember how to breathe.

She did not cry again until she was forced by Blanche to begin packing her things. Movers came and went and disposed of old furniture and items that meant nothing to Emily, who mainly decided what things around the house to put into storage and which things she would be taking with her to Paris. On the third day of packing, Emily went into her mother's bedroom to pack away all the clothes, jewelry, quilts, and other belongings. The sight of all her mum's things was overwhelming, and the lingering scent of her mum's perfume heightened the waves of nausea Emily felt from being in that room. She stood in the middle of the room, at the foot of the bed, and let hot, salty teardrops fall from her eyes. She had been holding them in for so long that it almost hurt to finally let them out. As she stood there, her body wracking from her quiet sobs, she remembered a conversation she and Blanche had had after the funeral.

Emily stood in the kitchen in her black dress, still in mourning, demanding to know why Blanche planned to stay in England. "Why can't you come with me?"

Blanche had replied shortly, "I have family here in England. Why can't you stay with me?"

The ten year old girl had then frowned so deeply that her face looked pained. "I promised my mother I would leave. This is the way it was meant to be. I can't stay here."

"I'm sorry for that," Blanche had said, but Emily had already left the room to begin packing her things.

And now that the packing process was almost complete, Emily was starting to doubt leaving London at all. But her last conversation with her mum still remained in her head. Whatever it was that her mum had been thinking or had _foreseen_, somehow, had frightened her and made her fear for Emily's own safety, and Emily was not about to cross her mother's wishes, especially now that she was permanently gone, buried in the ground, forever to lie in England which in her own words was to become tainted. Emily finished packing away her mother's wardrobe as she thought of this, and suddenly her nausea came back. Perhaps she should have requested to Blanche or another adult that her mother be buried in France instead? Panic flooded her brain. She would never be able to visit her mother's grave. She had promised she would never come back to England.

She finished packing her mother's belongings absentmindedly. When she was finished, she stood in the doorway with a full box, staring at the bed her mum had slept in up until the point when she had been permanently relocated to the hospital. A single tear rolled down her cheek. She turned out the light and shut the door tightly behind her.

The goodbyes to both the people she had grown up with and came to love and her beloved homeland of England were painful but inevitably short due to tight schedule Emily needed to follow in order to make her morning flight to Paris on time. The plane ride went smoothly, excluding the few times it hit areas of turbulence, and Emily arrived in Paris, the city of her birth, by noon. When she arrived at the airport, she was not greeted by a single familiar face. Instead she stood silently at the coffee shop with her luggage and waited for someone, anyone, to come find her. Finally a tall, balding man in his fifties approached her with a tiny smile and tested, "Miss Emily? Emily Vaughn?" He looked down at his hand, in which he held a photograph, and then back at Emily, who just simply nodded with curiosity.

"Christ, I haven't seen you since you were about yea-high!" He held up a hand to about his waistline and flashed a large, white-tooth smile at her. Emily politely smiled back but still wondered who this man was and why he was picking her up instead of her own father. And then suddenly she remembered. This man was the butler and personal assistant to her father during the short time she could remember living in France. "Vincent?"

Vincent nodded and grinned. Emily dropped her suitcase on the floor and ran to him, flinging her arms around his torso, overwhelmed with nostalgia. The two exchanged hugs for another brief moment or two, and then she pulled away, looking up into the older man's face. "Where's Dad? Is he waiting in the car?"

Vincent shook his head glumly and responded, "Your father is on a business trip in Berlin, Miss Emily. He won't be back until Monday."

"Oh."

"But not to worry, most of the bigger things from your house arrived yesterday, and we have them all moved in. It's just these things here," he pointed to her baggage, "that need to come home, and then we'll get you all settled in." Vincent put a hand on the top of her blonde head, "Our cook, Francine, makes the most magnificent cuisine from any country you like. We could have her whip us up a nice dinner tonight, and you can meet your new nana. How does that sound? Eh?" He gave her a little wink.

Emily's frown softened a bit and she nodded in agreement. Vincent smiled broadly at the child and helped her with her luggage as they made their way out of the airport and into parking, where a black luxury vehicle was parked, a tall man Emily undoubtedly recognized as their driver right next to it. The man opened the trunk and piled Emily's bags and such in after opening the doors for both Emily and Vincent, and then got into the car himself and began the drive to the place Vincent referred to as "Vaughn Manor".

Along the way, Vincent would occasionally tap on the back of the leather seat and tell the driver to adjust the radio volume or turn up the heat. Everything was spoken in French. It did not bother Emily a single bit, since she was fluent in French (all her conversations with Blanche had always been in French). Everything was also so sunny. In England it was always overcast and almost dark. Here it was bright, and all the famous visions, streets, historical buildings, and sites seemed to be illuminated in the light. It was almost overwhelming. Emily had visited Paris a few times before, but she now realized that these bright, beautiful things of Grand Paris would become permanent in her life. She wondered if she would ever see, hear, feel, taste, or smell the rain again. The tight, nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach signaled perhaps not. Or maybe the feeling in her stomach was anticipation. According to Vincent, they were almost back to the house. She tried to picture her father's face. It would most likely seem different than it was in her photographs. The last time she saw him in person was seven years ago. She couldn't remember that trip anyway.

The car moved along down the streets, now in a residential district that consisted of large, extravagant homes that made hers and her mum's house in London look like run down quarters in a lower class ghetto somewhere. They pulled into an upward-slanted drive that winded to the left around the back of a three-story house with beautiful windows and lawn. As Emily stepped out of the car, her mouth slightly agape, she was once again blinded by the sunlight and paused a moment to take in the expected yet surprising surroundings. She heard Vincent chuckle behind her, and she watched the driver try to juggle her luggage into the house.

Vincent was now behind her and put a hand on her shoulder. "Wonderful, isn't it?" Emily nodded silently. It was beyond wonderful. It was so magnificent that it made her feel almost guilty for living in such wealth and luxury. Vincent seemed to read her mind. "Your father's the sort of man who isn't afraid to flaunt his pay check. But aren't all politicians?" He patted her on the shoulder once more and stepped forward, saying, "Let's head inside. We'll get everything unpacked in no time and before you know it, dinner will be ready. You can also meet Heloise. Monsieur Vaughn hired her just a couple days ago, just for you." Emily tried to force a smile.

Vincent was right about the packing. It took the maid a little less than three hours to unpack all of Emily's clothes and smaller, general belongings. She left the personal belongings on her queen-sized canopy bed for her to sort out and place about her new bedroom on her own. Emily quickly found everything, her mother's old vanity, the rocking chair from her old nursery, all the furniture she had asked to take with her, was already in place in her bedroom. After several minutes of finishing the tedious task of unpacking, Emily was called downstairs to meet her new "nana" before dinner was served.

Her name was Heloise. She was not like Blanche at all. She didn't even seem like a nanny at all. She seemed like a bitch. _Salope_.

The dinner was large. The food was delicious and extravagant. Emily felt like a French queen indulging herself with such food. The dinner was indeed delicious, but the dinner was also long, awkwardly silent in some places, and the dinner was a wake up call for the eleven year old girl. It told her that her English traditions were going to degenerate sooner than later. French now consumed her. By the end of the evening, she even caught herself thinking in French. She wondered if her father would speak to her in her native tongue or in the language of the home she was now living in. She felt her stomach twist. Only time would tell. Monsieur Léonide Vaughn would be back on Monday.

Emily's father did not return until Friday, on the eve of her eleventh birthday. When he came through the door and first saw her, he embraced her in the best hug she had ever received in her life. His embrace was soft, but his face was hard. He spoke to her in English and told her all about his life in Paris. He also introduced the concept of public school while they ate supper at a five star restaurant for her birthday.

"It's entirely elite, a school of prestige. All-girls. You'll finish your education there. Your mother would have wanted it for you." Emily swallowed that thought along with her food and tried not to let it ruin her evening.

And then Monsieur Vaughn took Elizabeth Wyndham's ray of sunshine to the October 3rd showing of an English performance at the opera, just as she had once planned to do.

The month finished, and Emily stayed eleven years old. She started school at the beginning of November. Every morning during the week she put on her neat school uniform and Heloise brushed her golden hair (ever so roughly, more than necessary), and she went to school to learn all the subjects for five hours.

Slowly over time she stopped crying in the middle of the night for her dead mother, but she still mourned silently and almost unknowingly every step of the way. She began to develop routines again, could sleep better each night, made new friends at her exclusive school, and adapted to the French culture. Other than conversations with her father, her English side was lost, completely overlooked by what were now a prefect French dialect and her father's French nose. Time slipped by, ever so slowly, and Great Britain was forgotten about.

It got colder. Snow fell. December. Christmas. New Year's. Happy 2002.

January.

February.

March.

It was forgotten about. Until one morning when Emily was eating her breakfast and watching the world news on the television set in the kitchen. Until _it_ happened. The rage.


End file.
